


The Clothes Make the Man

by ami_ven



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Community: writerverse, Established Relationship, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-01 23:28:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6541126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ami_ven/pseuds/ami_ven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You are training to be a specialist, Barton, and that often requires specialized equipment.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Clothes Make the Man

**Author's Note:**

> written for LJ community "writerverse" prompt "uniform"

Clint could shoot just fine in the standard SHIELD-issue uniform. Maybe not up to his absolute best, given the tight-fitting sleeves, but they didn’t get in the way, and it was _much_ better than the stupid sequined costume he’d had back in the circus. He spent an extra afternoon in the range, adjusting his draw for the range of motion, and didn’t think about it again.

At least, not until Coulson called him into his office.

“But there’s nothing wrong with my uniform,” said Clint, confused. “I haven’t even managed to put any rips in this one!”

“An impressive feat, to be sure,” his handler replied, but with the tiny quirk of his lips that meant he was fighting a smile. “But that’s not the issue. The standard field suit is designed for the average agent on an average mission. And you, Agent Barton, are anything but average.”

“Aw, shucks, sir,” said Clint, just to see the lip-quirk again.

He wasn’t disappointed. “The standard suit is affecting your draw,” Coulson continued. “You are training to be a specialist, Barton, and that often requires specialized equipment, a specialized uniform among them. Now, I’ve come up with a few preliminary designs—”

“ _You’ve_ come up with?” Clint interrupted, surprised.

This time, Coulson only raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t _Project Runway_ , Barton, I just made a few modifications to the standard design to account for your unique weapon choices.” He held out a plan manila folder. “Look these over and tell me if you have any changes.”

Clint took the folder before he quite registered the last sentence. “Wait, I get a say in this?”

“Not the final say,” the other man allowed. “But, yes, you do. I’ve been involved in your training long enough to know where to start, but you know your limits and preferences better than I would.”

“Okay,” Clint agreed, and settled onto Coulson’s well-worn office sofa.

A moment later, he was glad he’d waited until his handler went back to his paperwork before flicking it open— he’d expected that ‘a few modifications’ meant a standard field suit without the sleeves, but this was a genuine original design, several versions of it, each carefully annotated to explain the variations in fit and materials, and any one of them would be perfect.

“Boss,” said Clint, standing on the other side of Coulson’s desk. “This is…”

He had no idea how to end that sentence, how to explain why something that was just another assignment to Coulson was such an important thing to Clint.

“I like the second design,” he said instead. “But with the purple stripes from number six.”

“I believe it’s called ‘piping’,” said Coulson. “I’ll send the revised design to the quartermaster, and they should have something for you to try on by the end of the week.”

*

“I’m working on a new lightweight Kevlar substitute,” said Tony, years later, sprawling next to Clint on the couch. “Figured I’d start with you, Katniss, since you’re the squishiest one here. Gonna need you to come down for some scans.”

“How about the original specs for my suit?” Clint countered, not looking up from his cut-throat game of Mario Kart against Thor. “I know Phil still has a copy someplace.”

“Why?” asked Tony. “He keep it so he can ogle your ass when you’re not around?”

“An unanticipated bonus,” said Phil, dryly, as he slid between them and _well_ into Clint’s personal space. “I’ll send you the files.”

“Okay, then,” said Tony, then let out a snort of disgust when Clint stopped racing long enough to pull Phil in for a long, deep kiss.

THE END


End file.
